


Keep a Candle Lit

by AssistedRealityInterface



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Happy Ending, M/M, Romance, after the heart punching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssistedRealityInterface/pseuds/AssistedRealityInterface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would've been Agent Coulson's birthday. The two people he left behind celebrate the only way they know how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was initially intended to at least end on a bittersweet note, if not an outright sad one, but you know what? I really can't. I just can't do that. Not to Phil. He's my favorite. So you get a happy ending.  
> Also yeah, today is apparently his birthday? Wow, thanks for punching me in the heart internet.  
> Anyways, hope you enjoy. Totally not in the AatA/AMaHTS verse, for once. It's the regular canon for this one...

For once, Clint's hands were the ones that shook, and so Natasha lit the candles for him.

It was not Clint she lit them for, though. It was for the man that should have, by all rights, been standing by their side today, full and whole and alive. Instead, he remained as but a memory in their hearts, the deepest part of their souls, interwined in every atom in their bodies—but not here. Not at home. Not safe.

The other Avengers had given them their space today. Natasha had seen the look in Steve's eyes, but she had not confronted him. Their grief ran deeper, more private, and she did not wish to share it with anyone save Clint. They would not understand. They could not.

She did not fault them for this, however. To them, he was an agent. He was a friend, an assistant, a guide, and, in the end, a hero. He was all these things and more, as Natasha and Clint both knew.

But it was them, only the two of them, that had ever known him as a lover. 

For that, they lit the candles alone. It was better that way.

Each one sparkled like a star, warm little dots in the endless expanse of darkness, flickering valiantly in their attempt not to go out, to stay and give their hearts the light and salvation they needed.

They could not. They tried, and for that, Clint and Natasha thanked the candles, silently praising them as they ran their hands over the flame.

The two of them stood in their kitchen, helpless to do anything but watch the candles on the cake burn down. It had been handmade, like he would have wanted; he loved cooking, especially for the two of them. It was the least they could do to return the favor, even when he was no longer here to appreciate it.

The candles were melting, dripping down the waxy colored poles like tears, falling on the cake. Clint was the first to speak. When he did, his voice was hoarse, like it had been choked with the dust of long-neglected graves.

"We should blow them out," he murmured. "Nat, we can't ruin his cake. We have to blow them out..."

Natasha nodded, her hair tumbling about her face as she gripped the table and steadied herself. Clint needed her to be strong. She owed him her strength.

"We will," she whispered. "But we will sing to him first."

The two of them immediately thought of the same thing; the records that had played almost constantly in the house, warm, bright, brash jazz that made him smile as he cooked dinner or finished paperwork or held them close and danced with them, and the way he had sung. His voice was a river that ran still and deep; each time they heard it, there was something new to it, a secret they had not yet dragged up from its depths.

His voice had left the house. But they knew it was still here, in the walls, in the grooves on every record, and in the veins within their body. They had to draw it out, if only for a minute. 

Clint cleared his throat, and in a raspy, low tenor, began to sing "Happy Birthday." On his lips, it sounded more like a dirge. Perhaps it was. Natasha knew her rich, full alto sounded like the song of a widowed woman, and so had no place to scold him for it.

The song wound its way around the room; cheesy, stupid, something he would've never wanted, and it hung in the room awkwardly, like a coat strung up on a too-small clothesline, and they both wanted to stop before they broke down, because if they did, then everything was lost, but then they reached his name.

Clint was the first to break. He didn't even make it through the second syllable before he began to scream; his voice broke from the weight of it, and it was a dead rattle in his throat, twisted slightly so that it might have once been his name.

Natasha managed to make it through his name. She might have been able, in fact, to finish the song, had she not thought, for a second, that calling his name had summoned him here; that the door had opened and he had come home to blow out the candles and make a wish, that he would kiss them both and put them to bed, and things would be all right.

Love was for children. For him, though, she would be content to weep as a child might.

She broke, then, and clung to Clint like he was the only thing in the world that could keep her steady, which was, in fact, true. His hands shook as he held her back, but they were sure and strong, and even as they wept, she did not fear he would let go of her.

For a long time, they sat at the kitchen table and wept by candlelight, each tear catching the flames and looking like phoenix downs as they fell. They splattered on the table like blood, though, and so the hopeful fantasy died as they watched the flames continue to burn down.

Finally, Clint spoke.

"W-we gotta blow the candles out, Nat," he whispered. "Make a wish, okay? I don't think he'll mind if we wish for him. Just this once."

Natasha shook her head before taking Clint's hand. It had stopped shaking, just a little.

The two of them stood in front of the cake and blew the candles out; between the two of them, all the flames went out in one gust of air.

It was, perhaps, the complete and utter darkness that broke her. Not even the stars outside were there to serve as light, and so she lost it.

" _I want him back_!" She screamed, so loud her throat protested. " _I want Coulson back! Give him back_!" 

She paused, breathing heavily, tears slipping down her cheeks; grief and shame at the loss of her control mingling together.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, it's the only thing I've ever wished for. I had no illusions before. But I'll believe in _anything,_ so long as it _brings him home_. Please _, please."_

She had no god to pray to, but pleas enough for a whole pantheon. Clint took her hand and took the pleas onto his shoulders, bearing their weight. They were heavy, but it was Natasha's burden, and he owed her his strength.

He held her tight and stroked her hair, kissing the top of her head.

"Nat, no...you can't say the wish out loud." He murmured gently into her hair. "Don't you remember it doesn't come true if you tell anyone?"

Natasha laughed; about halfway through, it turned into a harsh sob.

"I'll have to hope your wish will be enough, then." She murmured, pulling her way out of his arms and leaving the table, heading upstairs to bed.

Clint remained for just a moment longer, looking at the cake. The wax had spilled across a large chunk of it, but the words remained; 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PHIL,' in red, white, and blue. He would've laughed, Clint figured. 

He hovered his hand over his name, aware of how fragile the frosting was, and kept careful not to so much as touch it. He closed his eyes and listened; he could hear Natasha shutting the door upstairs, out of earshot. He sighed in relief and looked up.

"Since no one's around to hear it now...I can say it, right?" Clint murmured. "Come back, Phil. We need you. We're not meant to be together, not without _you_. Please."

He shook his head, biting his lip, and shoved the cake roughly off the table; he couldn't look at it anymore. 

Guilt immediately swamped his heart, and so he did his best to scrape it up off the floor and salvage some of it. The only part he could tuck away safe and sound in the fridge, however, was the piece that bore his name.

Clint headed upstairs and went into their bedroom. Natasha had already showered, and was now sitting on the bed, looking up at the starless, moonless night with dull, hopeless eyes. Clint let her have a moment alone while he showered; he couldn't stay too far away from her, however, even though it meant more grief and sorrow, and soon enough he was back in their bedroom, holding her hand.

"It was a good wish, wasn't it?" Natasha whispered. "Just the kind he'd like."

"Of course, Nat. He'll be proud, I'm sure." Clint laughed, low and bitter. "Wouldn't matter even if he wasn't, though, 'cause if he was around at all...he'd be alive. That's all that matters, right?"

"All that matters," Natasha agreed, biting her lip so hard she drew blood to stave off tears. "I can't think of anything else that m-matters more."

"Maybe," Clint paused, before he stroked her hair. "I think being here to wait for him might be pretty high up there, though." Clint murmured. Natasha turned to him with tear-bright eyes.

"Do you really believe he's alive?" She whispered, her voice the most broken and hesitant Clint had ever heard it. Clint sighed and pulled her into a tight hug, situating them both under the covers.

"No," he finally said, "but I believe in wishes." He kissed her forehead. "We may get him back yet, Nat."

She nodded into his chest, and he felt her fall asleep; he wanted to be with her longer, but he knew her dreams were the only places she would allow herself to feel vulnerable, broken, and in pain, and so he did not disturb her.

For awhile longer, he watched the night sky. One small star had come to shine in the endless darkness, like a single birthday candle. Clint couldn't help but smile before he kissed Natasha's forehead and fell asleep beside her, his breathing soft and easy.

About an hour later, downstairs, the door was unlocked with a quiet, practiced air. The man who walked in made no sound; he might as well have been a ghost, walking about the remains of his ancient home.

He spied the birthday candles, still scattered on the floor, and already bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes began to brim up with tears again. He steeled himself and shook his head, going upstairs with a clear head and a heavy heart.

He opened the door so quietly that neither person on the bed stirred; the man smiled, pleased. He was glad they could sleep so peacefully. He had worried for their sake for almost a year now.

He came over to the bed and had to look away, just for a second, at the tear-tracks on their faces. It took him a minute to will himself to do what he came to do, and so he knelt beside the bed, leaning over both of them.

Phil Coulson kissed both his lovers' cheeks, brushing the tears away carefully, before he tucked them into bed, as he had done a million and one times before.

"I'm sorry, darlings," he whispered in the darkness, in too much pain to care about them waking, "not much longer, I swear. I will be back for you. Hold on for me, please."

They both stirred in their sleep, and Phil tensed—but they only held each other closer. He smiled. They would be all right. He had not left them quite alone. 

Still, regardless of all that...they deserved a bit of hope.

Phil departed from the bedroom against every instinct and pang in his heart that screamed at him to stay, and made his way into the kitchen. 

He made them both a cup of coffee, exactly how they liked it, and set it on the table. After that was done, he left a single record on the table--the record Clint had bought him after he broke the original copy. 

To do any more was risky. Phil knew that. But he had to let them know. He could stand the separation if he knew they were waiting for him.

So, on the back of one of his trading cards, he wrote very carefully, "I believed in heroes. You two need to believe in wishes."

He kissed the card and left the house as quietly as he had come, driving away into the night. He would have been swallowed up by it entirely but for the light of a single star that shone right above the house, as if to remind him of the way home.

Phil didn't need the reminder, though. He would never forget where he was needed the most--where he was loved.

The next morning, Clint and Natasha came downstairs to the scene on the breakfast table.

They reheated the coffee with shaking hands and took sips, recognizing the unique taste. Their eyes widened, but they did not speak, did not dare shatter the dream.

It was Clint who picked up the record, and with a soft sob, clung to it like a liferaft in a hurricane, taking care to remain gentle with this one so as not to break it as well. Natasha was the one who picked up the card and read its words.

She waited until she had read them aloud to Clint before she cried out with a curious mix of joy, sorrow, and longing, and embraced Clint tight. The two of them sat on the couch for the rest of the day, clinging to each other, and the hope that the birthday gifts, so to speak, had brought.

The two of them had hope, now. They had hope, and the strength of a good, strong wish.

They held on to that hope, in fact, until the day he walked in through the door for good, and took the weight of that hope off their shoulders, to be replaced by the weightless, eternal joy of coming home. 


	2. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't just Phil seeing the two of them again, it's him meeting everyone else, because I've yet to write reunions for him and his team. I have a million of them conceptualized; this is one of a thousand ones I've plotted out and scripted, played out in my head. This one just happened to fit for this story.  
> Sorry this took so long--what with two other enormous fics and school, I got really bogged down. I hope it's worth the wait!

To take Phil Coulson away from his team, you would have to kill him, first.

So they did exactly that.

It was planned. It was planned from the moment Fury stepped off the helicopter to greet him at base. From the moment he lost his darling Clint to Loki. From the moment he met his hero, and almost lost his darling Natasha to her worst nightmare. The whole time, he was waiting to die. To lose them.

Not forever, he promised himself as Fury whispered in his ear, " _Good job, Phil_." Not forever. No one would take him from his darlings forever.

There were things he had to do, first. He could not return to them quite yet.

He was allowed to watch, however. Video feeds in Stark Tower and the like.

He could not watch his darlings for the first few weeks. Seeing them grieve and being unable to comfort them was what he imagined hell might be like, should he find himself there. He watched the others, though. He watched Bruce blossom, growing out of his shell; he watched Tony slowly and hesitantly fall in love with Steve. He watched Pepper do her best to do his job, and wished only to apologize to her. The burden should not have fallen to anyone else.

More importantly, he watched them grow together. He watched them become the team that he had died to create. As he did, he deemed that sacrifice worth it. He knew his darlings would not agree. But they would not suffer for much longer.

Fury had a few loose ends for him to deal with, though. The thing was, the Avengers were now a very public team; a well-loved group of do-gooders. There were times, however, when threats needed to be dealt with, swiftly and permanently—as only a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent could.

Phil was more than happy to protect his darlings from threats, whenever he could. It was worth not being with them as long as he was taking care of them.

He was sure they did not see it that way. He had finally worked up the nerve to watch them...and it was like looking at ghosts. They were hollow shells of themselves, and he knew the others noticed.

There was little they could do, though; Tony built Clint new bows and arrows, got Natasha a new set of stingers, Thor took them sparring, Bruce offered them company and a companion in their occasional ventures beyond the Tower, and Steve sat and talked to them both. Phil knew that was what gave them the most heart; he was certain that every time they looked at Steve, they saw him.

His memory lingered among all of them; for that, he was grateful. His team loved him dearly, desperately, and missed him constantly. He grieved for that; he knew his team was a band of lost creatures, souls that had scattered to the winds only to be forced together by chance, and his uniting influence had been a balm on their scars, mental and otherwise.

They would have to survive without him for just a little longer, though. Just...a little while longer.

...

Phil sighed and cleaned off his gun, looking up at the ceiling of his hotel. That was another A.I.M. threat taken down; they had been developing a reactor-destroyer, and Fury had sent him after them. It had been a bit of a hassle to wire the explosives for their lab base over in Europe—he hadn't fiddled with explosives in years--but their reactor-related tech was in ruins now. He didn't mind the headache the blast had given him, nor the blood on his hands from the few stragglers. The thought of Tony lying dead and drained, the gentle glow of the reactor dulled forever, was enough incentive to continue.

It had been almost a year, though. He had delt with enough covert threats; as much as he knew the value of being able to kill enemies and make their defeat permanent, where the Avengers often could not, the pain of separation had begun to set in. He wanted to be with his darlings, warming their bed; he wanted to be coaxing Tony and Bruce out of the lab, and explaining microwaves to Thor. He wanted his hero to know he was alive. Steve was the kind of man who would have been affected by his death.

Why was Fury making him do this? Was there a reason?

Phil sighed and put his gun away. He would ask, when he returned to base; he had one more mission to finish up, and then he could get an answer from the Director.

The next mission took him a little longer; it was undercover. Two weeks before he could even get his connections in, another week before he even met the ringleader, and a month before he put a bullet between his eyes and walked away to meet the helicopter waiting for him.

As he rode back to base, his face was grim. He would see the Director about this, and soon. He couldn't bear anymore separation. He had been through enough—as had they.

Phil took just enough time to wash, dress in a neatly pressed suit, eat something, and straighten up his collection of cards, (he had been concerned about how the remainders would survive the lack of care on his missions), before heading out to the main base to see Fury.

He didn't so much as knock; Phil strode in and sat in the chair in front of his desk.

"I need my team, sir," Phil finally said. "And I think they need me."

Fury raised an eyebrow.

"You've done great work undercover, Phil. You've dealt with more covert threats in a year than ten agents could in a decade. Why are you suddenly so eager to be in the spotlight with these people? You're not like them. You're normal; your best skill is that no one notices any of your skill at all." Fury said.

"They need normal," Phil replied. "They need human. They're fighting to protect the human race, Director, but most of them are so far gone from it that they need the reminder, the anchor. I'm nothing special, but that team is enough special to last for lifetimes. I think they could use a little more normal. As a reminder."

Fury was quiet for a minute, before he looked up from his work and surveyed Phil carefully.

"Running their lives will be a stressful job, agent." Fury said.

"With all due respect, sir, so was dying for them." Phil replied.

Fury didn't say anything for a few minutes.

"It's a different kind of job, Phil. One you're not used to. One that's going to mean your lovers are in danger, and you can't rush out onto a battlefield that might include demons or Doombots to deal with that." Fury reminded him.

"I trust the other Avengers to watch their backs. Besides, if I'm allowed to manage the team, then there won't be many situations like that." Phil replied. Fury actually smirked at that.

"True. You're a capable agent, Coulson. We all know that. The interesting thing now is going to be seeing how good you are at being _their_ agent." Fury said.

"With all due respect, sir, again; I already was." Phil replied. "May...may I go home?"

There was a catch to his voice, and maybe that was what, in the end, made Fury make the call. Even Phil Coulson had his limits, and he had stretched them enough.

"They're at the Tower, agent. I suggest you hurry. They usually head out for dinner around this time." Fury said.

Coulson was gone in seconds. Fury just chuckled. He watched him leave on the security cameras, getting into his car and tearing off. As he did, he took out the Avengers Initiative files and began to make a few adjustments.

...

Coulson pulled up into the garage, getting out and storming for the elevator. Before he could reach it, however, there was a harsh whirr and electrical buzz. He looked up, concerned.

" _Agent?"_ JARVIS said. There was an almost humanlike disbelief in his tone. " _Agent Coulson? Philip, is that you_?"

"Yes," he replied. "I'm sorry I took so long to return. It's a long story. Where are the others?"

 _"I...I..."_ JARVIS whirred, as if correcting himself. " _Forgive me, sir; just shock. Anthony, Steven, Thor and Bruce are all out to find dinner. Your lovers...your lovers have gone back home, sir. To their compound on base."_

"I see," Phil said quietly. "Well..while I'm here...I think the boys deserve to know. Is Pepper home?" He said. JARVIS whirred.

 _"Yes, she is. She is on the fortieth floor; should I bring you there_?" JARVIS asked.

"Yes, please. Don't tell her it's me; I'm interested to see her reaction." Phil allowed himself a small smile. "Going up, JARVIS?"

 _"Certainly, sir._ " He replied as Phil stepped into the elevator.

 _"It is...good to see you again_." JARVIS said. He sounded almost hesitant. " _The team, they._.."

"Grieved? I know." Phil closed his eyes and shuddered. "JARVIS, I had to _watch_. Clint and Natasha had to live without me, and that was all I could do. I know they grieved."

" _I know, sir._ " JARVIS said. His voice was soft. " _But I did as well."_

"...I'm sorry, JARVIS," Phil said, knowing it would never be enough—for any of them. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to do it. But it helped."

 _"I'm not so sure, agent. But I do believe it was the only thing you could have done. I understand._ " JARVIS said. _"You will not be leaving again?"_

"No," Phil said, surprised at the roughness in his voice. "No, never."

" _Good_." JARVIS said, satisfied. Phil smiled as the doors to the fortieth floor opened, and he entered the room.

The view was as beautiful as it had been the night he came to collect Tony; the sun glimmered overhead, slowly sinking beneath the horizon, as Phil looked around the room. Pepper wasn't there—perhaps she'd run into the adjacent room to grab something. He sat down on the couch and smiled as he caught sight of what was on the coffee table.

Pepper came out into the main living room to see Phil Coulson popping a bottle of champagne.

She stared, as if she was expecting to wake up from whatever dream she was having very, very soon. Phil took the time to pour her a flute of champagne, pouring himself half of one before putting the bottle aside. He stood up and offered the drink to her with a smile.

"They've been running you ragged, haven't they?" He said gently. "You can rest now. I've come to take my job back."

Pepper continued to stare for a few minutes, her mouth opening and closing.

Then she screamed, running across the room and throwing her arms around Phil, her whole body shaking as she held him tight enough to make his bones ache.

After a few minutes of just hugging him, Pepper pulled away, met his eyes, and then slapped him across the face.

Phil didn't even so much as flinch. In fact, there was a rueful sort of understanding to his gaze as he stood there.

"I deserved that." He agreed. Pepper was practically shaking in anger as she jabbed him in the chest with a single finger; she only yanked it away when he winced, the scar giving him trouble.

 _"You left her!_ " She screamed at him. Phil closed his eyes. Oh, yes. A knife to the heart would've hurt less.

"I know," he whispered. "I know, Pepper. I saw. I wasn't—"

"No! No, _you_ listen to _me_ , because for god's sake, I—" Pepper inhaled sharply, running her fingers through her hair. Then she snatched the champagne from him, slugging it down in one go.

"Okay. First. It's...so good to see you back, Phil. Really." She gave him a small smile for a second before her eyes narrowed. "But we need to talk about what you did to those two."

"I know," Phil said, and the utter pain in his voice gave her pause. "I know, Pepper. I knew from the second I took that mission that this is what it would do. But we saved the world. I can't...I can't have any regrets about that."

"But you want to." She said gently.

Phil closed his eyes. He didn't speak, but the way he shut her out was enough.

"She and I were already friends," Pepper began. "And she confided in me, because Clint was going through the same pain as she was, and he was the last person she wanted to hurt. She knew we were close. And she just wanted someone to talk to."

"I know," Phil repeated. "I know, I saw. They let me watch from the security cameras, sometimes."

"She missed you. He missed you. We all did." Pepper whispered. "Why did you have to go?"

"Because I'm their hero," Phil said. "If they couldn't protect me, they would make damn well sure they avenged me."

Pepper just hugged him tight. He could feel her tears dripping onto his suit; he didn't say anything. He just hugged her back.

"I missed you so much," she told him. "I can't do this alone. I tried. But I'm not you."

"No, you're not. But you made me very, very proud." Phil said gently. "I'm so grateful they had you."

"I'm sure they are, too." Pepper mumbled. Phil smiled.

"So...what are you going to do now, Phil?" She asked, pulling away to look at him. Phil shrugged.

"Well...my darlings are back at our old home. But I know once I go there, I won't be coming back for awhile...and I think the boys deserve to know I've come home." Phil said. "I was wondering if you'd be willing to have a drink, Ms. Potts."

Pepper grinned, sitting down on the couch and gesturing to the champagne.

"We've got a little while," she said. "Now, if you want me to refrain from slapping you again, I suggest you give me an explanation."

"Fair is fair," Phil agreed. "Just...one question, Pepper."

"Shoot, Phil," she said, pouring them both another drink. Phil closed his eyes.

"Did they...did they ever visit..." He trailed off.

Pepper's eyes went dark.

"I suggest you go see for yourself." She said quietly.

Phil left it at that. He knew where they had put the grave.

For another hour or so, the two of them just talked. He told her everything—she had spent enough time around the Avengers to deserve Level 7 clearance, damn the regulations, and he needed to tell someone. She just listened, her eyes softening with understanding as he went on and on about all he had done for them, and why he had done what he did.

As if in apology, or a way to soothe his hurts, Pepper told him stories in return. The little things that had made the year bearable for Clint and Natasha. The things his team had done. The villains they had defeated, and the heroes they had become.

"It was worth it," Phil said as she put her drink down. "It was worth it, Pepper. For the Avengers."

"But not for Clint and Natasha." Pepper replied. Phil shuddered, shaking his head.

"No," he agreed, his voice quiet, "not for Clint and Natasha."

They sat there in silence for a few minutes more before JARVIS interrupted with, " _Ms. Potts, the boys are home_."

"Send them up to the dining room, JARV. Tell them we've got company for dinner." She said. JARVIS hummed.

 _"Of course, madam._ " He replied.

Phil and Pepper got in the elevator to meet them there. For a second or two after they had arrived, they were quiet.

"...Do you think they're going to want to slap me?" Phil asked. "Because, no offense, but if _Thor_ slaps me, I'm a lot more likely to get a broken jaw in the bargain."

"Probably not," Pepper said. "He might hug you tight enough to break your ribs, though."

"I'll survive." Phil said dryly, going to set the table.

...

Tony balanced bags of groceries in his hands as the elevator doors slid open, bustling into the kitchen. He could hear Steve behind him, Bruce and Thor greeting Pepper enthusiastically, and the sound of a pot of coffee brewing. He hummed, pleased, as he set the groceries on the counter.

"Thanks for remembering, babe!" Tony called. He still called Pepper pet names from time to time to ruffle her feathers, and besides--he really could use a cup.

"Why, Tony. I'm flattered." Phil Coulson said, handing him a steaming mug of coffee.

It was worth every skipped briefing, every missed paperwork deadline, and every single sarcastic comment Tony had ever made simply to see the look on his face.

"JARVIS? JARV, buddy...this isn't funny." Tony murmured. Phil's heart ached a little bit at that. "JARVIS, holograms off."

"I'm not a hologram, Tony," Phil said gently. "Not a robot, either. I promise, it's me."

Tony continued to stare at him for awhile after that.

"You've missed eighteen briefings since I was gone," Phil said. "I'm going to start locking you out of the lab, you know."

Tony laughed, a slow smile spreading across his face as he set his coffee down and stared at Phil. The smile only got bigger when the truth hit him all at once, exploding across the forefront of his mind.

"Oh my god, it _is_ you." Tony whispered.

Then he threw his arms around Phil and hugged him tight, burying his face into his neck.

Phil just sighed and put his coffee down, a smile on his face as he embraced Tony back, letting the warmth of the reactor soothe his own agitated heart as he felt Tony shaking beneath his touch. No, he wouldn't cry, not here. But Phil wouldn't doubt he had cried before. Nor that he would cry again, someplace private.

"I'm sorry," Phil said. "I've missed you so much."

"Yeah, I'm sorry too. Been doing your childhood hero up the ass since you left." Tony pulled away and grinned. "How's been, Phil?"

"I can still kneecap you," Phil replied pleasantly.

"Good, then. You're keeping in peak condition." Tony patted his cheek. "No hard feelings, by the way. I get it."

"I know," Phil said, and the way he said it gave Tony pause. "It's okay to have missed me, Tony. I'm sorry I had to leave you. You're a good friend. I know this was hard."

Tony looked away, not speaking. Phil squeezed his hand and let Tony unpack the groceries as he went into the living room to see the rest of his team.

He would have seen all of them, was he not immediately pressed against the broadest, firmest chest he had ever felt. It quivered beneath him, and as Phil heard a harsh, guttural sob, he realized Thor was _crying_.

"...Thor? It's okay. I'm here." Phil murmured. "Hey, Thor. It's okay."

"I thought you _dead_ ," he snarled through tears, his voice quavering, "I thought the greatest mortal I had ever met _dead_ because of my own failings, my own _brother_ , I thought—I—"

"Oh, big guy. You really don't need to blame yourself for this." Phil sighed, feeling Thor relax his grip. He pulled away and looked up into the god's red-rimmed eyes.

"This was all S.H.I.E.L.D.'s plan," Phil explained. "I needed to die so you could become a team. But I needed to be alive so you could continue. I was always going to come back; it just...took awhile. I was never dead, Thor. And I don't blame you for anything. No one could."

" _I_ could, Son of Coul," Thor whispered. "I am sorry. I should have done more. If we had been united...we would not have needed to lose you."

"Thor, I'm fine. Please. Don't blame yourself." Phil comforted him. "You've been through enough, big guy. Relax. I'm back, and I'm alive, and I'm never going anywhere again. So don't blame yourself, okay?"

Thor pulled him into another tight embrace. He had stopped crying, but he still shook. Phil just hugged him back.

"You are the greatest of us all," Thor murmured. "You have done so much with so little compared to us, and yet. You are worthy, Son of Coul. And I am grateful to know you."

Phil couldn't help but smile.

"Likewise, Thor." He replied.

He hadn't realized Steve had left until suddenly, he heard footsteps and felt something nudging into his back. Phil turned around to see Steve holding a shoebox, tears in his eyes. His heart ached--the last thing Phil ever wanted to see was his hero crying.

"He ruined them," Steve choked out. "He ruined the cards—I know you loved them, and I know you loved me, and I just felt like it was _my_ responsibility, because you made us _your_ responsibility, and I just—I missed you so _much_ , I—I'd lost _enough_ and I thought I lost _you_ and—and you're really here, right?"

Phil's heart broke, the child in him crying out in agony at having done this to his _hero_ , to his _Captain_ , to the greatest man he had ever known. Steve looked so _lost._

"Yes, Captain. I'm here now, I promise. I'm not leaving. I'm sorry. I know. I never wanted to hurt you. Please believe me." Phil begged. "Please, you were my _hero_...I never...I never wanted..."

"I know. You're here now; that's what matters. To me, to the others...and to Clint and Natasha." Steve said quietly. Phil nodded, refusing to acknowledge the tears in his eyes. Steve put the box in his hands; confused, Phil opened it.

The shrill shriek that ripped its way out of his throat was the most undignified thing possible, but none of that mattered in the face of an entire collection of officially licensed Captain America trading cards. The whole collection, sitting neatly in that shoebox.

Each and every one was signed by Steve Rogers.

Phil's throat convulsed and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. He was a grown man, damn it, and he was not going to get emotional over trading cards.

Steve hugged him tight.

"I'm so proud of you," he said. "You're my hero, Phil."

He was going to get emotional over that, and _nothing_ would stop him.

Phil gave himself a moment to compose himself and get his dignity back before he set the box down with shaking hands. It was then he noticed Bruce hanging back, shyly observing him, hesitant to approach.

"Doctor," Phil said warmly. "Forgive me. I don't think we've ever been properly introduced. Agent Phil Coulson; I'm your handler. It's a pleasure."

Bruce still regarded him warily. Coulson understood; he knew the look in the doctor's eyes. This was the hesitancy of an abused child, grown into a fearful, shy man. He had seen it in Clint, in thousands of others. He knew how to handle it.

"I've seen you get so much better at control, Bruce. You should be proud. You and the other guy both have grown into very fine heroes." He swallowed. "It...wasn't the only thing I saw, though." He closed his eyes to stave off any further tears and smiled weakly.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you for taking care of them for me. I know I should've been there. But you made them happy, Bruce. You did good. Thank you."

Bruce was quiet still, but he had come closer, step by step. Phil would take that as a victory.

"They missed you," Bruce said softly. "I never really met you, but they told me all about you. They told me you were good...and kind. And that you made sure...made sure that nothing hurt them."

The look in his eyes pleaded for Phil to do the same with him. If he could have, Phil would have hugged him.

"I think they may have overexaggerated some of my better qualities—"

"They didn't," everyone else in the room chorused, and Phil felt a surge of love for his team, his people, as he smiled just a little.

"—But I can assure you, doctor; I take care of my team. You are part of my team. You're going to be just fine, Bruce. I promise." Phil told him. Bruce nodded, and the hesitancy, the fear was all still there...but a spark of hope had begun to kindle as well.

"They...they love you," he finally said. "They love you more than anything." Bruce swallowed and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I...I don't know you like the others do...but I know how much you mean to Clint and Natasha. And they...they mean a lot to me. So, um..." Bruce smiled. "I...I'm really glad you're back."

Coulson just gave him a smile in return; a promise that he was safe, and that he would be protected from now on. Bruce's entire face softened, his bearing relaxing as Phil took his hand for just an instant. It wasn't a hug, but it was contact—the contact Bruce gave freely. That meant more than anything.

Phil sighed as he looked around at his team, all of them so happy to see him back.

"I hate to leave, but...Clint and Natasha need me. I'm sure they haven't eaten dinner." Phil said mildly, like the thought of seeing his lovers again wasn't making his heart hammer furiously in his chest. "If I can talk them into it, we'll come over for dinner, promise."

"They've got a floor here," Tony said. "So do you. They'll come back."

"I will too," Phil promised. "I'm not leaving ever again—not like that. I'm your handler now, and I won't let anything take you all from me."

"We know, we know, now go see to them. They've suffered long enough." Pepper said sternly, pushing him towards the elevator. "JARVIS, give him Tony's Jaguar. The nice one."

Before she sent him off, she murmured into his ear, "The grave, Phil."

He understood. But he wasn't sure if he was ready.

Then again, they hadn't been either. He owed them this.

" _Affirmative, Ms. Potts_." JARVIS said, jolting him out of his thoughts. Phil found himself being bundled into the elevator, sent down into the garage, and before he knew it, in the car and tearing off to see Clint and Natasha, his heart aching as it called out for them both.

...

There was one stop he made first.

He knew where the grave was, but he had never gone to see it. His sense of black humor didn't extend so far as to visit his own grave.

Maybe he should have, he thought as he pulled up to the cemetery and walked up the path, maybe it would have forced his hand, made him come back sooner.

It was a clear night, though a bit crisp—winter had not yet released its shackles on spring. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of candles lit the gravestone before him, making it seem as if the sun had never set on this particular cemetery.

Flowers flooded the ground, and as Phil waded through petals and leaves, feet crunching firm vines and strong stems, he saw notes, letters of love and adulation.

He recognized Tony's handwriting, then Steve's, then everyone's; alongside his team there were thousands more he didn't recognize, inspired perhaps by the love his Avengers had left behind. They had been pinned there, laminated to withstand the rain, some crisp and new, some weathered and worn. He picked them all up and clutched them safe against his chest.

Phil knelt in front of the gravestone, tracing the letters of his name that had been cut so rough, so deep into the stone, as if each slice of the chisel was a cut deeper into the hearts of everyone he had left behind. Guilt swelled up in him like a flood, and he closed his eyes in a feeble attempt to hold the dam steady.

As he traced the letters, fingers stroking over them without even needing to see, he stopped as his fingers caught roughly-hewn stone, as if it had been carved with something smaller—an arrowhead, perhaps.

Phil opened his eyes to read the words, and something deep inside him broke.

_"Love you. Miss you. Our hero. —C.B., N.R."_

Phil laid his head against his own gravestone and began to sob.

He wept until he had cried the last year out; gotten all the separation, all the loneliness, all the guilt and the pain out, lanced the wound and pulled out all the infection, letting it get burned away by the hundreds of candles that still burned for him, had always burned for him.

He stood up with red-rimmed eyes but a strong heart, his mind clear for the first time since he had returned. He had one last thing left to do.

Coulson took one last look at the memorial before he turned his back on the grave and strode out of the cemetery, rushing for the car and finally, after a long time coming, going home.

...

He unlocked the door with shaking hands.

The first thing Phil did was turn on the lights.

The starkness to the house struck him first; they had not come back here often, it seemed. He understood why. This had been one of their houses—not the only one, but with S.H.I.E.L.D. houses, they all looked the same. It was the pervasive sameness that kept the memories so painful; it didn't matter if this was the New York house or the New Mexico house or the Argentina house or the St. Petersburg house. In this house, regardless of where it had really been, they had been together.

Phil knew the layout by heart, going upstairs quietly as his entire body thrummed with promise, with fear, with coming home.

He gripped the doorknob, but before he could turn it, someone had wrenched the door open for him, standing in the threshold with a gun in their hands.

Phil just tsked, giving Clint a sharp look.

"Don't get lazy on your gunwork, Barton," he said. "Hawkeye can't half-ass his sharpshooting, even if he's working with gods now."

"Fuck you," Clint said, and it was alternately painful and nostalgic to hear him say that, as he had so often in training as a way to tease Phil, to torment him and then make up for it later in the showers, "my aim was perfect and you know it."

"You didn't know it was me, though. I'm hurt, Clint." Phil said.

There was so much he wanted to say, and not enough words for it. There was no way to pull those wounds open and get it all out, not here, not all at once.

"Well, yeah. We thought you were _dead_ , so." Clint spat.

"Clint, I..." Phil shook his head. "No. This isn't...this isn't how I wanted it to go."

"Then how _did_ you want it to go, Phil? With the two of us being _happy?_ Happy that you _left us_? Happy that I thought you _died_ , that _saving the world_ didn't _matter_ , because the world might as well have fucking died for me when _you_ did, happy that we waited for you for a _year,_ with everyone _pitying us_ and trying to understand when they _couldn't_ , when they could _never know_ , because they hadn't _lost you_ , they hadn't been _weak_ , they hadn't been _unmade_ and then left without the means to make themselves _whole_ again? Did you think we were going to be _happy_?" Clint snarled.

Phil stood there for a minute, quiet.

"No," he finally said, his voice hoarse. "No, I didn't think anything. I just...hoped."

He heard Natasha stir, the soft sounds of her hair swishing over her shoulders, the unique way she walked, and Coulson didn't come forward, didn't cross the threshold. Not yet. They hadn't let him in yet.

She watched him with wary, hurt eyes. Coulson didn't drop his gaze. He let her show him all her hurt, all her loss, all her sorrow and misery that had accumulated over the past year, the things she didn't know how to tell him. He took it all in and did his best with just a smile to tell her things would be all right.

"You thought I was dead," Phil said. "I thought you were suffering. Only one of us was wrong."

"I do not mind being wrong." Natasha finally spoke up. "But why did you..."

"I had no choice," Phil murmured. "Fury's orders. I had to save the world. And I'm not you. I'm not an Avenger. This was...the only way I could."

"You were _always_ an Avenger," Natasha said softly. "And I do not think saving the world was of much use if you were to destroy your own."

"I know," Coulson rasped, tears in his eyes. "Nat, I _know._ It hurt me too, damn it! Don't be selfish, either of you! I had to watch you both _suffer_ , helpless to even call you and tell you I was _safe_ , because I could never explain why I couldn't come home, because you had to be part of that team and not part of my life anymore, and yes it _hurt,_ but _I survived,_ and _so did you_!"

Clint and Natasha watched him with tear-bright eyes as Phil ran his hands through his hair, his hands shaking as his whole body shook with the effort not to cry.

"So don't tell me you got destroyed, don't tell me you lost everything, because god help me, if you had, I would have torn down S.H.I.E.L.D. with my own bare hands! I know when to draw the line! And I'm doing it right here and now! I'm _home,_ and I'm _never leaving again_ , and if that isn't enough, I don't know what else to give! Because I'm _not_ special, I'm just _human_ , and that means all I have to give is what's standing here right now. It used to be enough. If it isn't anymore, then I don't know what to tell you." He said, looking up at them. "I'm still Phil Coulson. I'm still your lover. And I'm still alive. Is that still enough?"

They both just stared at him for a few minutes.

"Still enough," Clint said. "Especially for the two of us, all things considered."

"I missed you both so much," Coulson said, and it wasn't enough, nothing would _ever_ be enough, but it was something to make them understand, and _that_ was enough. "I still love you. I always will."

"Love you too," Clint murmured. "I...I missed you."

"Missed you too, Clint." Coulson hugged him tight. He wasn't over the threshold, but he was closer.

Natasha's arms encircled him, and he felt a gentle, delicate kiss brushing against his neck.

"I love you too," Natasha whispered. "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Natasha. It's all right. I'm home now." Coulson turned to brush a lock of hair away from her forehead, kissing her cheek. "I'm never leaving either of you again. You're my Avengers now, my team, my agents...and my lovers. Always."

"Always," they agreed, and Phil felt them carrying him across the threshold, taking him in and bringing him to bed, where he had longed to be for a year now, entwined in the two of them, safe and sound.

He hugged them tight, and they knew without needing to be told it was his way of reassuring himself they were still there. That he was still with them.

They hugged him back, getting into bed with him, undressing along the way until they were all together, warm and entwined in each others' limbs, tucked away in each others' hearts.

Clint and Natasha leaned in close, to hear Phil's heart still beating, and they rejoiced in the rhythm as they held him, their own arms entwined so that he wouldn't slip away in the night, like the wisps of a dream. He was home, and they were still with him.

"My heroes," Coulson murmured, stroking their hair before closing his eyes and smiling, falling asleep with a soft sigh.

They both looked at one another over his still, peaceful form.

With a smile, they leaned down and brushed kisses over his cheeks, placing their hands over his heart and lying down beside him.

"Ours," they murmured, before they were still, the night falling over all three of them like the fulfillment of a promise.


End file.
